


Breathe in, breathe out

by beanharry



Series: Wilted roses [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M, Nitto ATP Finals 2017, kind of, other players only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 05:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanharry/pseuds/beanharry
Summary: '[Rafa] are there days when you play without pain? 'Hmm ... [He hesitates] Yes, there is, but the truth is that it doesn’t happen often.'Roger doesn't lose the tournament on purpose.





	Breathe in, breathe out

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> Yes, it's me writing Fedal. Came as a shock to me as well but they took over my life.  
> I have been writing this for like a week so if it doesn't make any sense sorry in advance!  
> This honestly has been inspired by someone lashing out on tumblr that Roger didn't intentionally lose the Finals and I was like "you don't say?" but who talks about intention, honestly. So this is a headcanon kind of thing. 
> 
> I haven't seen all of the matches so I didn't go into details. Hope it's still somewhat readable.  
> In the summary that is a quote I saw on twitter from an interview with Rafa and I can't remember but maybe it was in Spanish. If anyone wants it I might make an effort to find it again.  
> All mistakes are mine! 
> 
> You can also find me on either sebvett or rafanad on tumblr and scream with me :)  
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

Roger doesn’t lose the tournament on purpose.

He goes there to win.

 

Still, this is not what happens.

 

 

*

 

 

What he originally envisions is the following: going to London, playing the finals and winning it.  Just as simple and straightforward as he always heads into a tournament. With one goal solely on his mind: to win it. Even with the soreness he feels in his limbs, the constant ache in his back, the tiredness of a great but exhausting season, even with these feelings in the back of his mind carefully acknowledged but not pondered on, he believes he will be able to do it.

During his two weeks off he prepares, rests and recovers. His back isn’t easy on him – it never is – but still, he manages. He has it all under control, or so he believes.

He proves himself right when he defeats Sock on Sunday, maybe with just a bit more difficulty than he would have liked, but still. He wins and it must count for something.

 

Still.

 

Despite the victory he isn’t - no, that’s not right - he _can’t_ be entirely relaxed or happy. At least not as happy as he normally would be at the end of a season, enjoying his last tournament of the year. No, it’s not possible when there is a strange twisting in his chest that has settled around four weeks ago and somehow persisted ever since then – it refuses to go away no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, alongside with the almost buzzing anxiety which isn’t exclusively his own.

It’s Rafa’s fault.

Rafa, who goes and secures himself Year End Number One with his excessive work and tremendous energy, his steady determination and belief that he will be able to come back stronger after his miserable last season.

And he does. Oh god, he does and it is brilliant and admirable and Roger couldn’t be more proud of him even if he tried, so he makes an effort expressing it over and over again in his speeches, to let the whole world know how proud he is of his boy, of this amazing man – _champion,_ without directly saying the words.

He really does feel like he shares this season with Rafa.

_Still_.

 

He is also kinda pissed off at him.

It isn’t because he feels bitterness or envy tearing into his mind at Rafa’s success, no, it’s not like that at all. Although in the end it doesn’t really matter because it is just as distracting of a feeling, knocking him out of balance and making him lose his focus.

He often wonders if Rafa would be the great player he is today if he didn’t have that fierce stubbornness and unyielding personality. Probably not.

It doesn’t stop Roger from wanting to scream in frustration.

 

The thing is - he is annoyed at Rafa for making him worry.

 

 

*

 

 

It is pleasant enough when they arrive to London. Finding their rhythm around each other after time spent apart is always easy, in the way that being together is easy for them - just as effortless and natural as breathing. Their lives are complicated enough, but this? This has always been easy. Loving each other is the most unalterable part of them, a constant, it’s always there and it never goes away with neither time nor distance.

When they are together at last it feels like they never parted ways - not really, despite both of them living with that (by now generally accepted) numb sensation of something missing whenever those miles separate them. But seeing each other again, finally being able to touch, to kiss, to rediscover every part of each other’s bodies like it is their very first time? It has always been the least complicated thing between them.

 

They are in love and it’s as simple as that. It’s a truth accepted a long time ago neither of them can, or want to deny.

 

 

*

 

 

Other things are not like that, not at all.

Those things are painful, and raw, and delicate. Way more complicated than what they deserve.

 

The situation Roger experiences right now is just like that. It’s starts as something very unremarkable, at first. Not something he could pinpoint or describe and say “oh, that’s it, that’s what I’m feeling”. It lurks underneath the surface for a long time and is unnoticeable because he doesn’t pay any attention to it in the beginning.

 

It starts something like this:

During Shanghai Roger feels his focus shift. It’s barely anything significant, at first. He is becoming more and more aware of Rafa, becoming even more perceptive of his behaviour - the way he limps even so slightly, unnoticeable only for the eyes not seeking the movement there. His expressions, so telling as he scrunches his nose up in pain at a wrong step - but yet again, quick enough for it to draw the attention of someone who doesn’t know what to look for.

Except Roger sees it all.

Beating Rafa in the final is one of the hardest things he ever had to do during their long shared career together. Watching an injured Rafa on the other side of the net would have been hard enough to deal with but he has done that on a few occasions before. This time though, for some reason, seeing Rafa suffering and yet not giving up – not giving _in_ \- makes his chest alight with an ache he’s sure he has never quite felt before. He doesn’t know how to deal with the feeling.

It makes him pause – he feels uncertain, like the ground under him has shifted for a moment.

 

Roger kisses Rafa’s sore body all over that night and tells him none of this.

 

 

*

 

 

Roger knows Rafa had gone through various therapies and treatments in the almost two weeks’ period between Paris and London. Enough time has passed since then and now Rafa is quite confident about his ability to play – none of it comes as a surprise to Roger.

 

And yet -

 

Roger doesn’t miss the barely there winces when he moves too suddenly or bends his right leg a little too much. He is careful on it, almost as careful as he is trying to hide it, knowing that everyone – his team, his family, _Roger_ – is watching his every move like they are hawks eyeing their pray, the only difference being that their aim is to protect, not to harm. Which Rafa makes extremely difficult for everybody.

 

The thing is that Rafa isn’t stupid - far from it actually. But when it comes to playing with injuries, he is relentless. He has a tendency to treat his body like a machine without any hint of consideration.

So no, Rafa doesn’t listen to his team when they advise him against playing. In the end, it doesn’t come as a shock to anyone, really - Roger even expected it a little - when Rafa insists that he is, or at least he _will be_ fine and healthy enough to give it a shot during the finals.

Roger tries talking some sense into him (while the restless, twisting feeling settled in his chest only gets heavier and heavier with every passing day)

 

\- but his attempts at convincing Rafa fall on deaf ears.

 

 

*

 

 

The night they arrive to the hotel finds them laying side by side on the bed, Roger gently combing his fingers through Rafa’s hair and Rafa absently drawing figures on his chest with his fingertips. They are not quite dozing but relaxed enough that neither of them has said anything for a while now. In this moment of serenity is when Roger decides to bring up the issue again. He nudges Rafa’s head gently with the back of his hand to get his attention.

“Hey,” he starts and pauses for a moment, “are you a hundred percent sure this is really the best idea? Playing on Monday?” he says it lightly, knowing this topic isn’t one of Rafa’s favourites. Especially that they went through it quite a few times by now. He can’t see Rafa’s face from this angle but the eye roll he receives is tangible enough.

“Rogi, I already tell you. Is necessary decision for me, no? I play, I try my best and rest we will see,”

Rafa’s voice is exasperated, but he doesn’t actually sound annoyed - which. Roger can work with that.

 

He hums neutrally instead of answering, and continues stroking Rafa’s still damp hair silently for a couple of more minutes. He is highly aware of Rafa’s rising and falling chest pressed tightly into his own, the steady heartbeat against his side. He considers whether the somewhat still alien feeling in his chest is worth telling Rafa about.

In the end, Roger decides to voice his concerns, desperately wanting Rafa to understand.

 

“It’s completely your choice Raf, and you know I respect that, right? But I’m also worried about you,” Roger pauses for a heartbeat, considering his next words carefully. He wets his lips as his gaze falls upon the moonlight shining through the curtains.

“I just don’t think it’s the wisest choice to make, you know? Like Maymo said. If you aggravate this injury, you are quite possibly risking playing next year. What happens then?” he exhales loudly and closes his eyes, pressing his face into Rafa’s soft hair, while trying to keep the mild panic bubbling up inside his chest in bay.

Rafa’s hand stops its playful caress on Roger’s chest and his whole body goes rigid at those words. _One, two, three_. It makes Roger hold his breath while he waits for a response. The charged moment subdues a little after a few tense moments and Rafa shifts up and around until he is laying on Roger’s bare, warm chest. He hooks his chin over the back of his clasped hands and looks at Roger with a deep frown on his face.

“Why you say things like that, Rogi? My knee, is bad for a long time now, no? Is never a hundred percent okay. And I still play, I try from day to day, no? I gonna try now too. I have to. What is this about really?” His eyes are boring into Roger’s, making him feel like Rafa can see through him, can see his every unspoken fear, every doubt weighing him down, even the ones he doesn’t dare to acknowledge himself.

 

He keeps his eyes on Rafa - on his gorgeous boy with the dark gaze and smile like the summer sun. Roger touches his face softly, his thumb finding its way into the corner of Rafa’s mouth, pressing there.

 

He didn’t mean to make Rafa frown so hard. He pretty much feels like he is overreacting the whole thing anyway.

 

“It’s nothing, baby. It’s just me having this,” he gesticulates widely around the air with his free hand, “thing going on for a while now. I just worry, that’s all.”

 

Rafa looks confused. Roger sighs.

 

“Is alright, Rogi. I gonna play on Monday and is gonna be alright, no? I still gonna be here next season,” Rafa looks off to the side and bites his lip. When he looks back at Roger his eyes are hooded and Roger can’t help but think he looks even more gorgeous in the dim light of the hotel room, “You don’t need to worry about me. Worry about yourself. Your back is gonna be enough hard to deal with.”

“My back is just fine, thank you.”

“This is not what you say a week ago in Mallorca,” if it’s possible Rafa frowns even harder, eyeing Roger suspiciously. His hands are very warm against Roger’s chest now.

“Well, your knee isn’t fairing any better, so what’s your point,” he reaches down and pulls Rafa’s right leg over his hips, his hand finding its way around his injured knee, gently rubbing it in slow circles. Rafa lets out a pleased hum but doesn’t stop watching his face intently like he is trying to figure something out.

 

When Roger speaks again it’s so quietly that it almost fades together with the background noise of the city outside, “You shouldn’t play like this. It’s not good for you.”

For a couple of moments Rafa just blinks at him, trying to comprehend what he is saying. Then his face shifts into an expression Roger has gotten quite familiar with over the years. It makes his heart break.

When Rafa finally answers his voice is sorrowful and there is a sad little smile on his face.

 

“Many things are not good for me, Rogi.”

 

Roger smiles ruefully back and thinks _I would give you everything, if I could_ and _I am so sorry for hurting you_ and _Sometimes I can’t breathe from loving you this much._

 

But he doesn’t say any of that.

 

He rolls them over as he kisses Rafa soundly, and what he says is -

“I know.”

 

 

*

 

 

Playing Zverev on Tuesday isn’t easy at all, and the kid is terrific. It’s a tough match but in the end he wins and that’s what matters to him. He should be happy, he _is_ happy –

 

But the heavy feeling in his chest is still present and Roger thinks it’s even more unbearable than before - -

 

Before Monday.

 

The shift he notices is not so subtle this time - his mind starts to wonder. He finds himself zoning out, his thoughts miles away both literally and figuratively, with Rafa. He craves his proximity, the closeness that allows him to reach out and touch him, comfort him.

It makes him irritated. He is not used to this amount of distraction, this lack of grip he has over his mind. He tries to brush these emotions aside as he refocuses on his opponent, on the set he is currently playing.

 

And yet, even after he wins the match the only thing on his mind is the memory of Rafa in his arms, his weight against his body, the physical assurance that he is safe and sound.

 

He should feel euphoric, he should feel the usual carefreeness after a match hard won but –

 

 _Still_.  

 

He wonders what has changed as he continues his way down the corridor towards his now empty room.

He shakes his head a little -  this isn’t what he should think about during a tournament, especially not during a match. His focus should be as sharp as shredded glass, only thinking about the ball, seeing the ball.

 

Still, this is not what happens.

 

 

*

 

 

When Monday finally comes Rafa is as unreachable as he always is before a match. Not in the way that he isolates himself from Roger or his team but his mind is already elsewhere. He is a bunch of nervous energy, sharp determination and readiness. Maybe even more so this time because of the slim chances on his weakened right knee. He pretends to shrug off his team’s warning comments and numerous advices but Roger knows Rafa is completely aware of the situation.

 

And still, here they are.

 

On the morning of Rafa’s match, Roger wakes long before him, laying perfectly still among the warm duvets. Rafa is curled under his arm snoring lightly, forehead pressed into Roger’s ribs and their legs tangled together. The air is still, peaceful. The sky is dark and the city is quiet outside, the dim light of the street lamps illuminating Rafa’s face and making it look even softer, painting an almost a child-like innocence over his now mature features. It makes Roger’s heart pang and ache with love he only ever feels with Rafa.

The thing is, he doesn’t usually let himself ponder on this for long - it’s always during quiet moments like this, when reality seems to be just a little more further away from them - but when he does, he often thinks loving Rafa isn’t something he will ever be able to comprehend fully. It feels something much greater than he could ever put into words. It’s full of contradictions and twists, it’s something unique and special and _theirs_. Sometimes it feels like falling, like being pulled under by this heavy, almost crushing weight and yet, he never felt as alive with anyone else as he does with Rafa.

But it’s not always that. It’s not always falling.

 

Sometimes it feels like flying.

 

 

*

 

 

On that night in Shanghai, after Rafa loses the match to him because of his injured knee, Roger feels even more restless than he usually does after a win. It feels like an itch beneath his skin, he can’t describe it or define it but he is aware of it and it makes him feel on edge. Rafa is always gracious, even when he is losing but Roger notices that the displeased expression remains on his face long after the trophy ceremony. That frown between his brows, those lips pressed together tightly when Rafa thinks he isn’t looking. Roger knows he is angry at himself, that he feels betrayed by his own body even though he has been dealing with these kind of injuries for more than a decade now. 

Having to watch Rafa’s silent suffering - even if he has seen him like this countless times before - makes him jittery.

Naturally, he never likes seeing the other man in pain, it doesn’t matter if they are playing each other or not. But it never felt quite like this before.

 

On court, what Roger feels is utter helplessness and for what is probably the first time in his life, he almost can’t handle playing Rafa.

But he has to do it, it’s not a question of preferences, even though every one of his instincts is screaming at him to run away so he won’t have to deal with it.

 

In the end he does it, of course he does.  
  
He does it quickly and he even manages to shut out every one of his newfound concerns because he can’t afford to make sense of them right now - he needs to think of Rafa as an opponent only, at least until the very end of the match.

It’s _after_ , after he wins and sees the raw exhaustion on Rafa’s face that it all comes back without restriction and the flood of emotions leave him gasping for breath even more so than the match.

 

It’s in that moment when he feels the uncertainty of being knocked out of balance for the very first time, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

 

 

*

 

 

Back in their hotel room in Shanghai (he began to think of what is officially his room as theirs years ago) they both have their respective showers as they often do after matches played against each other. It gives them time to cool down, to think about everything that happened and get over it. Rafa let’s Roger go first, seemingly busy with throwing his things back into his suitcase and several sports bags. He doesn’t dare to argue, knowing that Rafa needs the time even more so now to be in his head alone for a little while.

 

He showers quickly and efficiently, the water scorching hot on his aching body but he doesn’t bother with turning it cooler. He rests his palms against the slippery tiles and closes his eyes for a moment. He lets the water soak his hair and stands there until it’s dripping from the very top of his head.

 

He doesn’t dare thinking about how he feels.

 

When he goes out Rafa is sitting on the bed with his hand resting on his injured knee, his eyes closed. Despite the stillness he looks anything but peaceful and Roger chest contracts painfully at the sight of him.

He approaches the bed quietly, his hand coming to rest on Rafa’s shoulder lightly in order to not scare him before he speaks.

“Hey, Raf. Shower is all yours. We will finish packing later.”

Rafa only nods without opening his eyes but as Roger tries to move away he suddenly grabs his hand tightly. Entwining their fingers, he finally directs his tired gaze at Roger.

“You will wait for me, no?”

Roger smiles at him gently and reaches up with his free hand to comb Rafa’s hair behind his ear.

“Of course I will, baby. Not going anywhere, you can take your time.”

The other man nods briefly at this, bringing Roger’s hand to his mouth and kissing it briefly. However, Roger’s eyes don’t miss the way Rafa flinches when he stands up, or the quick limp as he tries to rest his weight on his other leg. As the bathroom door closes after him he lets out a long sigh and this time he is the one who sits down heavily onto the bed.

 

He stares blindly out the window and tries not to think of anything while he waits for Rafa to finish his shower.

It’s difficult.

 

The only thing he sees is Rafa in pain, both mentally and physically.

 

It’s difficult.

 

He looks up as he hears the bathroom door open and Rafa emerges with a towel around his waist, hair wet. Roger automatically gets up to draw the curtains closed and switches on the lamp on the nightstand instead of the main one and the mood instantly softens. He discards his own towel from around his waist, running it through his still damp hair a few times before throwing it in the general direction of the sofa.

When he looks back up Rafa is watching him silently from where he is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed before his chest. His dark eyes seem to burn with their usual intensity and it’s making Roger’s skin tingle.

They keep their gazes on each other for a heavy, prolonged moment before he finally moves and goes to Rafa. His hands reaching for his hips without thinking, gripping firmly but not hard.

Rafa stands perfectly still, only his eyes tracking the movement of Roger’s hands. When he glances back up at his face there is a hint of a smile around his lips.

“Glad you wait for me Rogelio” his own hands finding their way up Roger’s chest as he speaks, all the way to his shoulders before going around his neck in a lose embrace. Roger can’t help but half smile at this.

“You know me, never going back on a promise,” he intends it to be a joke but it comes out quiet and serious and Rafa is looking at him with those eyes again and _Roger can’t think_ \- he needs to reassure him, to let him _know_.  Rafa pauses and the desperation in Roger for him to just understand, to get it, gets unbearable “You know that, right? I will - …”  

_wait for you. I will make you happy. I will give you the life you deserve._

 

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

 

He looks into Rafa’s searching eyes and thinks _God_ , _I love you so much_ and kisses him because he doesn’t know what else to do.

 

 

*

 

 

By Thursday Roger feels completely turned inside out. The restlessness gets worse and he feels like catching a plane and going straight to Mallorca. He calls Rafa at least twice a day, asking about his knee and his wellbeing. He can’t concentrate, he barely sleeps. He can’t do anything without feeling out of place and that makes him annoyed on top of everything else.

When he plays Cilic it feels like an out of body experience and he has no idea how he manages to win. The first set is terrible but during the second one he finds some bits to work with and in the end he pulls it off. He is glad his instincts when it comes to playing are somewhat intact at least.

He wishes he didn’t have himself to blame on this one, but he really does. He feels tired to his very bones and even though he tells the crowd he looks forward to the weekend, in reality all he wants to do is end this as quick as possible. He now realises what has been unclear to him up until this point - there is no way he could win the tournament with a mindset like this. There is just no way.

 

He comes here to win.

 

Still, this is not what happens.

 

 

*

 

 

Roger is panicking. He honest to god feels like he is going to lose it in any given minute.  He is back in their hotel room, sitting rigidly on the couch with his arms on his knees, foot tapping. He feels so fucking nervous and annoyed and worried all at once.

For now, though, he is mostly worried.  

He watches Rafa wincing at almost every step, his jaw tight and eyes hard. He is suffering and it’s visible. Roger feels close to marching onto the court and stopping the whole thing at once. He wants nothing more than getting his boy out of there.

 

He never felt more helpless and confined in his life. As the crowd goes wild on the screen he presses his fists hard into his eyes until he sees stars.

 

“Fuck.”

 

He stands up abruptly and starts pacing around the room, eyes never leaving the television screen. Seeing Rafa in so much pain, - much more than what he was dealing with in the Shanghai final - is something Roger never wants to see again, not in his life. He wants to scream in frustration and also grab the other man to yell at him for being so reckless and stupid, going out on court _like this_ , -

What was he _thinking_.

 

Roger lets out an angry huff then comes to a stop as Rafa misses another easy ball.

And still.

Still, a casual observer wouldn’t even notice the obvious signs of an injury because Rafa is relentless. His face is unreadable, his movements are still quick even though not quick enough by a large margin. Apart from this, he fights like a warrior with his teeth and claws out, dripping in his own blood and _still_ not giving up, not making it easy for Goffin.

 

He is the strongest person Roger has ever seen.

 

He resignedly slumps back down onto the sofa, desperately wishing Rafa wouldn’t be this determined and stubborn and wonderful and knowing this is exactly why he loves him so undeniably much.

 

 

*

 

 

The match against Goffin on Saturday is the most difficult one because even though part of him wants to fight, wants to go on, he knows he isn’t able to do that. Despite this he tries his hardest on court, he grabs every opportunity to fight back, but deep down he knows it won’t be enough. He is also strangely aware that this was somehow inevitable all along. In a twisted way he feels lucky that it didn’t happen earlier in his career.

His love for Rafa has always been easy.

The other things that come with that love are not so much.

 

He loses the match but he feels lighter than he did in a long time. What he feels is relief and what he ends up thinking is –

 

 _finally_.

 

 

*

 

It’s late when Rafa gets back to their room, the door closing softly behind him. Roger immediately gets up from where he has been sitting in the last couple of hours and takes him into his arms. Rafa lets him, slumps against him exhaustedly, letting out a little whine of relief. Roger squeezes his eyes shut against Rafa’s cheek as he holds him close and if he grabs Rafa’s hair a little too tightly it’s only for to stop the trembling of his hands.

 

 

After a couple of minutes of them standing in the middle of the room holding each other desperately, Rafa makes a pained sound and shifts the weight on his feet. Roger immediately steps back, guiding him to the bed. He undresses him slowly despite the Spaniard’s rapid protests and kisses over his bad knee. After he strips himself of his clothes as well, he pushes Rafa gently down until he is laying on the bed splayed under Roger, just where he wants him.

He doesn’t speak for a long time, instead he leans down to kiss the corner of Rafa’s mouth. He hovers there, just a breath away for several heartbeats. His voice sounds harsh and strangled when he whispers into Rafa’s skin,

“Don’t ever make me go through this again. Please Rafa, don’t.”

Rafa looks up at him with a slight surprise on his face but his expression softens quickly from whatever he sees reflected on Roger’s face.

 

He nods once before leaning up to kiss Roger gently, reassuringly.

 

“Okay Rogi. Promise.”

 

 

*

 

 

In the dressing room after the match he lost, Roger wonders whether it is going to be like this from now on. If it really was inevitable all along. If he won’t bare the sight of Rafa on the same tournament.

 

He looks down at the racket still in his hands, absentmindedly twirling it between his legs where he is sitting on the bench. He wants to believe that this was something misplaced, something temporary, a thing he can get used to and even get over.  He wants to believe he has that kind of control over himself.

He wonders if his love for Rafa will be the end of him, more precisely the end of his career which is pretty much the same thing if he thinks about it.

He wants to believe it won’t.

 

And _still_.

 

He is here, out of the finals and it stings. But he is not surprised in the slightest. He only has himself to blame, after all, losing focus like that.

He thinks about finally being able to kiss Rafa when he gets out of London.

 

The twisting, heavy feeling in his chest persists.

 


End file.
